


A Betting Man

by amarmeme



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Bets & Wagers, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Gambling, Poetry Appreciation, Strip Tease, Wicked Grace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 10:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8140282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarmeme/pseuds/amarmeme
Summary: Varric and Cassandra make a simple wager that sets off a chain of events neither one of them would have predicted. Betting, bantering, and kick ass women.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sammywhatammy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammywhatammy/gifts).



> Beta by the lovely amarthril! Thank you so much!

It begins with a bet. 

“Five royals says the first one’s mine, Seeker,” Varric whispers. 

He shifts Bianca in his hands, the weight of her reassuring after a long night lost in a rainstorm. At least something still makes sense. The camp is just north, or he’s pretty sure it is. Dwarves aren’t exactly built with compasses. 

The Seeker stirs next to him at the base of the ridge. With the group of bandits above, she has to lean into Varric for him to hear her complaints. “I don’t want your money. And why would I take that bet, dwarf? You have the clear advantage of surprise.” 

“At least it’s clear to both of us," he says. The Seeker grunts and begins to slowly retreat on her stomach. He throws up a hand to halt her progress down the slippery grass slope, then waves her forward. She crawls up to his side, elbow by elbow, and he waits a moment before making a concession. “Fine, fine. Price is negotiable. I’ll shoot the first one in the head and give you five seconds to haul your bucket of rust up there before the second one goes up for grabs.” 

“Only five?” She eyes him suspiciously.

“You need more? I thought you were the best warrior of our time. Maybe I’m mista--” 

She slices the air with her hand, her sodden glove dripping water onto his arm.

“What do I get?” She sounds like she’s trying to hide her excitement, like a kid who has to pretend they didn’t find their Satinalia presents.

Varric chuckles softly. Two hours ago the Seeker was tearing into him for losing track of the camp he’d just come from. Then the rain descended hard like a swarm of hornets and they were forced to find shelter in a smuggler’s cave. She’d refused to talk for a while there, only responding in grunts and grimaces. Now she’s taking a bet with him.

“Shit, have you never bet before? You get to set your own terms. Maybe there’s something of mine you want?” He raises his eyebrows suggestively and the Seeker punches him in the arm. Varric holds in a yelp, frowning as she contemplates. 

“Actually, I have finished the issue of Swords and Shields you gave me.” 

“Already? Damn, that’s-- that’s kind of flattering, Seeker.” It is hard to see color in the middle of the night, but Varric can tell her skin flushes by the way she dips her head. “Or maybe you’re just missing the better kind of evening entertainment?” 

Varric doesn’t know why he always turns this line of conversation into an insult about the Seeker. Truth is, he’s never felt better than when she gushes over his characters. A month ago she cornered him by the fireplace in the main hall at Skyhold, pressing for details until the Inquisitor pulled her out on some errand to the Hinterlands. Of course, Varric drafted the next issue of his terrible romance serial that afternoon.

Now when the Seeker speaks, it's as sharp as her blade. Perhaps even deadlier as a whisper in his ear. “That’s none of your concern. I should not have indulged you.”

He feels like an ass. That's no way to treat a fan. It'll pretty much guarantee she loses interest, not only in his books, but in indulging him too. The Seeker’s antagonistic, but Varric can’t dismiss she’s been decent company over the last year. He backtracks.

“Shit, sorry, I know this is my fault. Let me make it up to you. Win and I’ll give you the next issue, and without any smart ass remarks.” 

She actually considers it for a minute, picking at the grass beneath her. Varric squints up at the rise and thinks maybe they’ve stumbled on the most oblivious set of bandits in the Hinterlands. If there was another way around he’d take it, but this direction’s actually a bit familiar. Besides, he's not risking her wrath on the storm clouds holding off another two hours around the mountain. 

“And a character named after me.”

She's smirking at him, probably thinking he won't take it. But there's no way he's losing the bet anyway. “Deal. And I get to show you how to play Wicked Grace. “

“How is that a reward?”

“Oh, you underestimate how much fun I'll have teaching a Seeker to lie through her teeth.” She huffs a little, but it doesn't keep her from holding out her hand. They shake on the bet.

The Seeker leads the approach, inching up the hill quietly, Varric just behind. He is surprised at her stealth, maybe there’s more to her than shield bashes and shouting matches. She positions herself to spring over the edge, fingers gripped into the muck at their feet, and Varric pops up past her. He aims where the bandits lounged a few minutes before, but instead of pulling the trigger, Varric is left staring down empty bedrolls around a fire. Luckily, he didn’t waste a shot on air. The campsite is empty save a few pieces of clothing hanging to dry over weak flames.

The Seeker makes a sound halfway between a growl and a grunt of pain, and Varric pivots as a large bandit hits the ground. Mud splashes into his face and he teeters for a moment on the edge before the Seeker pulls him upright by the collar.

“Should’a asked to see her tits,” shouts a tree. “Though loud as ya were ya should'a collected first. Now yer mine!”

An arrow flies past Varric’s shoulder. Bandits can't shoot for shit. And now he knows where the bastard is. Varric lines up, waiting for the man to lean out again from behind the fourth tree on the left of the camp. The Seeker doesn’t hesitate though, and charges to the treeline, flames licking up her ankles as she steps over the campfire. The second bandit, wearing nothing but tattered leather breeches, backs up into Varric’s sights. It’s perfect how things come together, the bolt flying true and sinking into the man’s neck.

“Looks like you owe--” The clear sound of the Seeker’s blade being yanked from the dead man’s chest gives Varric pause. “Well, shit. Don’t tell me we both got him." 

The bandit falls to the ground and before you can say Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, another appears behind a large boulder near the scattered bedrolls. He waves an old, rusty ax and screams bloody murder. In a flash, Bianca releases a bolt that finds its home neatly between unbelieving eyes.

The Seeker, unimpressed, wipes a bit of mud from her face and pries a clump of grass from her breastplate. “I believe we are at a tie, Varric.”

* * *

 

Cassandra waits for him in the tavern, her knee bobbing impatiently under the table. Varric is late, at least ten minutes. She is about to tell him as much when he walks in, but the sight of Swords and Shields under his arm fills her with excitement instead.

“Am I in this issue?” It comes across much louder than she intends and a few of Bull’s Chargers turn to watch. Likely believing they are to witness a fight between her and the dwarf.

Varric chuckles. “No, Seeker, I’ve got something better planned.” He takes the closest seat and drops the copy next to her tankard. “This should more than satisfy my end for now. You ready to become a liar and a cheat?”

She groans and traces the cover of the manuscript. Somehow, deep in the Frostbacks, Varric has bound the next issue in rusty red leather. The image of the guard captain is missing from the front, as well as Varric's ridiculous portrait on the back, but it still is stamped with the same title. Cassandra smiles despite herself. If she could only put off cards in order to read, perhaps she could get through a few chapters this evening.

“Ah, I shouldn’t have given you that.”

Varric pries the issue away and her fingers are left clutching air. He replaces the empty space with cards instead, showing her the various suits and the Angel of Death. It is so much to remember, and Cassandra’s head begins to spin at the rules and when it is appropriate to bend them. He drinks a few ales and they play out a few hands, Varric leaning over the table to look at her spread of cards. She loses each time and he hasn’t even begun to cheat.

“I still don’t understand how Drakes takes that hand.” Cassandra sighs and throws her cards on the table.

“Hmm, maybe we should start you on Shepherd’s Six.” He sweeps the cards into a pile and begins to shuffle.

“Isn’t that a children's game?" 

“Yeah.”*

Cassandra makes a noise of disgust. “I can see you are enjoying this far too much.” She stands up and reaches for the tantalizing red leather. Varric intercepts her, resting his own on her wrist, and gives her a pleading look that is strange on him. It sparks something in her chest, but she’s too irritated to pay attention.

“One more. Don’t want to end on a sour note.” She hesitates. “Come on, Seeker -- you can read it after. I won’t deny a true fan that much.”

Before she realizes, Cassandra spends the entire evening learning to gamble.  

\---

Weeks pass and Varric invites the Inquisitor’s inner circle to play Wicked Grace. It is not often enough Trevelyan can find respite; the flaring mark on her hand a constant reminder of her duty. The Inquisitor seems in high spirits, and Cassandra has to admit Varric did a good thing bringing everyone together. Though she ends with less money, Cassandra wins two hands without any cheating. It is an enjoyable diversion, one she would not have predicted weeks ago. 

After they call it a night, Cassandra walks out of the tavern with Dorian. A blur darting across the courtyard catches her eye. It is the disgraced commander. In that moment, she is grateful for Varric’s lessons. 

“I am lucky Cullen is worse at cards than me.”

“No, I believe I’m the lucky one,” Dorian jokes. 

The mage watches the commander run to the tower with great interest. Against better judgement, she glances to where he stares and discovers Cullen tripping in his haste to ascend the staircase. Cassandra attempts to hold in her laughter, but after Dorian gasps in sincere concern she can’t keep it contained. She lets loose, great belly rolls that have her gasping for breath until her stomach aches. The object of her outburst disappears, and only then can she calm herself with deep breaths. Dorian makes a study of her instead, his arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

Cassandra wipes an errant tear from her eye. “What is it?” 

“I don't believe you knew the rules to Wicked Grace a few weeks ago.” He nods back at the Hanged Man where Varric and the Inquisitor still are talking. “Has the dwarf been providing you private lessons? That’s just perfect! I knew all that arguing between you wasn’t for nothing.” 

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“He _did_ show you to play?” He arches his eyebrows, as if there is far more to it. 

She rolls her eyes and heads off towards the direction of her room, Dorian’s laughter trailing behind and filling the space hers had left. 

* * *

 

There’s a lot to be said for long legs in snow drifts. Varric watches Cassandra’s with envy, plodding through the knee high shit. He tries to follow in her footsteps, but it’s still not easy to get through. Snow doesn't come in the fluffy variety in Emprise du Lion. Every square inch of land is packed with the thick and heavy stuff that feels like wading through a pile of stones. Varric feels a little sick, knowing there’s different types of snow and he can identify them. Blistering Kirkwall sounds perfect, even if it smells like piss and ale whenever the wind picks up.

“Are you okay?” Cassandra looks back, her cheeks flushed with the cold. Snowflakes drift lazily around her face, speckling her dark hair and landing on her eyelashes. He’s sure it doesn’t look so cozy and appealing on him.

“Yea, Seeker, I love being buried up to my armpits.”

She scoffs. “You exaggerate, as always.” Instead of continuing after the Inquisitor and Sparkler, she waits for him to catch up. “I believe we are almost there.”

Varric reaches her side and takes a much needed breath. They are in this blizzard for his own doing. He’d asked the Inquisitor to destroy the red lyrium deposits a while back. After the little game he put together, she felt sudden guilt for putting these last few deposits off. If he knew that meant he’d have to drag his ass through snow drifts, he would have reconsidered being so thoughtful. For as much as he complains though, it is satisfying to see the red crap in pieces at his feet instead of hearing its wretched song in his head.

A fierce, icy wind picks up and blows right through his coat, sending shivers down his spine. The shit weather reminds him of the time he and the Seeker got rained on. Maybe a little sport will make this bearable.

“So, what’s the wager today?” Her slow smile of recognition does a lot to warm him. Since that night they’ve only bet on games of Wicked Grace and then it's only for money. Twice a week they meet at the Rest, trading coins and old battle stories. Unsurprisingly, the Seeker has a lot of tales to tell, all of which are ripe for inspiration. Upping the ante now seems only natural, seeing as it’s her fault he’s finally experiencing the other seasons Thedas has to offer.

“And not coin -- save that for cards.”

The Seeker thinks for a moment, one hand on the hilt of her sword. “That last issue was so good,” she gushes. “I loved the part about her brother finding the mage in the bathwater. It was so unexpected! Maybe another issue?”

“Come on, Seeker, you can do better than that.”

She taps her chin and scrunches her brow. Varric’s limbs are starting to get cold and stiff from their momentary pause, but he wants to hear what’s coming next.

“I didn’t expect to enjoy your lessons as much as I do. Would you teach me to shoot Bianca?” Varric suddenly feels warm again, though it doesn’t reach to his toes. 

“I don’t know if you could handle her, Seeker.”

“Because you are so manly.”

Varric laughs, tugging Bianca out of her holster. “No, she’s designed to fit me. The trigger’s just not right. My hands are much bigger.” He demonstrates, but she doesn’t seem to be buying it. He doesn’t bother adding that no one touches Bianca but him. “We could borrow one of Sera’s bows. She’s not particular about them.”

“What about poetry, Varric?”

“What about it?”

She huffs then starts walking away from him. He thinks she’s going to drop it, but then a completely unexpected request flies over her shoulder.  “You narrate so well, Varric. Perhaps a reading? For the wager.” 

Something about this feels different than another issue of Swords and Shields. It's more revealing in a way, that maybe the Seeker likes his company and not just his words. Varric smirks to himself, grateful to be out of her line of sight. The Seeker may be in over her head on this wager. 

He puts Bianca back and takes a step towards her. “Fine.” 

She stops and he damn near runs into her back. The Seeker spins around in the snow, her hands gripping his shoulders for support when he almost takes them down trying to scramble back. All her agility from a moment ago fails her and she slips, pulling Varric along too. He’s up to his armpits in it now for sure, and she tries to hold in a laugh at his dour expression. Snow gets down his coat and slides down his chest and Varric curses at the Maker, Andraste and any other deity that is responsible for fucking snow.

* * *

 

The exact terms of their wager was never discussed, so when Cassandra calls to collect she doesn’t mention how many others are invited to the poetry reading. Trevelyan offers up her room for the event, to which Varric, with a shake of the head, says he’ll find something about love-sick leaders just to spite her.

That evening they gather around the Inquisitor's quarters, various stools and chairs carried in from different rooms in Skyhold to fit them all. Josephine sits to Cassandra’s right, already wondering what poems Varric will read. Leliana has not arrived yet, but promised she would not miss out on it for anything, and Sera hangs lazily on the ledge above Trevelyan’s bed. Dagna, another fan of Varric’s writing, and Scout Harding huddle near the fire. They duck their heads after blushing at the sight of Trevelyan. The Inquisitor organizes her desk, allowing room for Varric to sit and recite to his heart’s content.

The door bursts open and Josephine starts, hoping it is Varric. Dorian enters instead, gliding onto the couch near the stairs. Much to Cassandra’s surprise and delight, Bull follows.

“Oi, they’ve already said it's not the good stuff!” Sera shouts down to Bull. “Gonna be all fancy flowers and crap.”

Bull smirks. "Yea, well a little of the finer stuff gives you perspective." Beside him, Dorian flushes. Cassandra files this away for a future conversation with the mage. 

Varric finally arrives carrying several books of poetry. A tankard of ale balances atop the stack, and he nearly drops it all upon seeing how many are gathered. True to form though, Varric recovers swiftly, chuckling at them all perching at the edge of their seats.

“Seeker, I thought this was a bet between us? I didn’t realize I lost to half of Skyhold.” 

She waves a hand. “It was vague enough.”

He sets the pile down and takes a long pull of ale, perhaps readying nerves. Instead of sitting, he leans against Trevelyan’s desk and grabs the first book. He clears his throat, fusses with his tunic, flips a few pages and stalls until someone yells, “Get on with it!” Cassandra feels nervous herself, the pit of her stomach unsettled and her palms slick. It would have been a much different night had Varric been reading to her alone.

Varric puts on a pair of spectacles, reminding her how close in age they are. It's a cozy picture, Varric reading by fire on a chilly evening.

Then he ruins it. 

“Ahem. Here’s an original.

_“There once was a Seeker named Cass,  
_ _who was blessed with such a great ass,  
_ _They all watch it sway,  
_ _as she walks away,  
_ _Until she knocks them facedown in the grass.”_

Sera is the only one laughing, the rest frown at Varric. He raises his hands in defense, and Cassandra chucks a pillow at him. She’d prefer her shield handy, but the force of the throw knocks him back.

“I thought it was ‘vague enough,’ Seeker.”

She chucks another aptly named throw pillow at his head “The only great ass here is you.” 

He deflects it easily then laughs -- actually _laughs_. Cassandra fumes silently, uncertain if he is going to read something serious or continue ridiculing her. He adjusts his spectacles and settles against the desk.

“This one’s a favorite,” he says, opening the book. His voice is low and thick.

 

> _“She walks in beauty, like the night_  
>  _Of cloudless climes and starry skies;_  
>  _And all that’s best of dark and bright_  
>  _Meet in her aspect and her eyes;_  
>  _Thus mellowed to that tender light_  
>  _Which heaven to gaudy day denies._  
>    
>  _One shade the more, one ray the less,_  
>  _Had half impaired the nameless grace_ _  
> _ _Which waves in every raven tress,_ _  
> _ Or softly lightens o’er her face;” 

Varric looks at her over the edge of his eyeglasses. It is a momentary pause -- conceivable for taking a breath, but the reaction it produces in her is anything but ordinary. Her heart beats faster, thumping against her breast. _This is the effect of beautiful poetry_ , she thinks.

Varric continues reading with his rich, warm voice.

 

> _“Where thoughts serenely sweet express,_  
>  _How pure, how dear their dwelling-place._  
>    
>  _And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,_  
>  _So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,_  
>  _The smiles that win, the tints that glow,_  
>  _But tell of days in goodness spent,_ _  
> _ _A mind at peace with all below,_ _  
> _ A heart whose love is innocent!”** 

Josephine sighs and a hand brushes the back of Cassandra’s arm. It is Leliana, who slipped in at some point during the spectacle. The poetry is so moving, beyond anything she could dream of conveying. And the way he recited, with such passion! It would be easy to get swept away. Were it not Varric, of course.

“Who is it by?” Trevelyan asks.

“A Lord Manfred Chillon.”

“An Orlesian,” Leliana remarks. 

“Yea, you’d think so,” says Varric. “But Manfred was a Kirkwaller. And an expert womanizer.” He looks to Cassandra at this and grins. “Probably recited this to dozens of raven haired women before slipping into their sheets.”

A flush creeps up her neck and Cassandra is not sure why this talk of rakish poets is so exasperating.  Perhaps it is his gaze, which is still fixed on her. The feeling of nervousness that the soothing words had vanquished now returns and she fights the urge to squirm in her seat. Cassandra Pentaghast does not flinch under the scrutiny of another. He notices her discomfort nonetheless, as if he is attuned to her every behavior, and offers a simple wink.

Dorian chimes in, breaking the moment, and she is glad for the relief. “I wonder if you have any of the Tevinter poets? To provide these Southerners a better appreciation of true artistry.”

“Sure, Sparkler,” Varric says.

As he replaces the book of poems for another, Cassandra expels a pent up breath. This business with poetry is quite more vexing than she imagined.

* * *

 

Varric waits for the Seeker’s retribution. For weeks he practically tiptoes around her thinking the next slash of her sword will be for his neck. It’s a bit odd, not having her company for cards, but he’d rather not take another chair to the head. It doesn’t help that Nightingale sends him caustic glances whenever she’s not sequestered in her loft. Just the week before there was bird crap on his writing desk and he’s pretty sure the spymaster can control those things. Add to the fact that the Inquisitor just barely escaped Corypheus through a magical transporting mirror, the mood in Skyhold is just damn cheery.

Gambling always makes Varric feels better, so he recruits Sparkler for diversion. The mage is ever eager to part with his money.

“Pissed off the Right and Left didn’t I?” Varric draws a welcome Serpent into his hand. “Raise you five.” The added coins clink against the pile on the table.

Sparkler raises an impeccable brow over the edge of his cards. “Am I to understand you’re looking for my commentary on the female disposition? And here I thought you so worldly in the ways of women.” Coins chime again.

“Nah, figured you’ve pissed someone off before. Tevinter mage -- the drama practically writes itself.”

Sparkler scoffs and pulls up a card of his own. Without even the slightest of tells, the mage raises the stakes again. “It is drama I assure you I've not dealt with.”

Varric rubs a coin between his forefinger and thumb absentmindedly. Sparkler couldn’t mean _that._ How could the Seeker even think that he... What did he say to make her believe... 

“You don’t really think--”

“Honestly, the romance writer doesn’t even see the climax right before him. Truly remarkable.”

Sparkler drinks his wine, trying but failing to hide his shit-eating grin. Varric slumps against the chair, dropping his cards to the table. Sure he’s thought about it before, take a look at the Seeker after all, but this is different. She’s not just some woman in a bar who’s looking for a good distraction.

Cassandra Pentaghast is a romantic. Which, he realizes dumbly, is not too dissimilar from himself.

* * *

 

“A dragon.” Cassandra hits a practice dummy square in the chest. It is far less satisfying to see straw fly from its confines than the alternative.

“Yes,” says the Inquisitor. “And I need you there.”

“This is not a jest? Perhaps Varric told you--”

“I’m not messing around with you, Cassandra.” The Inquisitor steps in front of the dummy, forcing Cassandra to stop. “I’m on my way to the war table. It won’t be long now. And I need you and Varric both. To finish what we started. It’s only right.”

She sheathes her sword and clasps Trevelyan on the shoulder. The woman is pale and wan, tired from all the burdens placed on her. “There is no problem between us,” she says.

“Really? Because you used to be inseparable, but I haven’t seen you together in weeks.”

Cassandra sighs, dropping her hand. It is true. If anything, she should be annoyed with Varric, not the other way around. Ever since the poetry reading, he has avoided her.

 _How strange that a person could so easily insert themselves into your life, then just as easily walk away,_ she thinks. It was not Varric who inserted himself though, if she is honest. Cassandra pulled him out of Kirkwall and into the thick of danger. He did not ask to be thrust into the Inquisition, but she also did not force him to stay. Her head spins in confusion. None of these issues matter now. What matters is defeating Corypheus once and for all.

“I will speak to Varric,” she says. “And we will be ready when you need us.”

\---

She finds Varric that evening, playing cards with a few of the Chargers at the Herald’s Rest. It seems he is losing badly -- barely a handful of coins rest beside his usual ale. It occurs to her that a losing Varric is not ideal for conversation, but time is not dispensable. If there is an issue, she does not want it following them to the fight.

He loses a hand to Dalish, swears and glances up to see Cassandra leaning by the bar. A mixture of apprehension and guilt crosses his face. Cassandra would expect the worst, but she’s not sure what that comprises any more.

“Looks like you’ve run me dry,” Varric chuckles. He picks up his mug and last few coins while the Chargers give him a hard time for leaving. The dwarf shakes his head, then walks back a few steps to the bar. “I need more ale to forget how bad you’ve beat me.” He pivots on a heel and faces her with a grim, knowing smirk. As if she is the Angel of Death coming to collect and he’s seen it in the cards.

“I am not here to injure you, Varric.”

He pulls up a stool and sits beside her while she stands. “I was pretty sure you’d be pissed about that joke.”

“Why? It was not a lie.” At first she is surprised at herself for the admission, but decides to let go any pretense of professionalism. This is Varric, a man who is anything but formal. She flags Cabot down and holds up two fingers. After all the card games, ale is starting to grow on her. “Though if I had to punish everyone who stared at my ass, I would never get anything done.”

Varric looks surprised, hanging on the edge of his seat, eyes wide. “Are you testing me?”

Cassandra laughs. “About what?”

“Oh, I don’t know -- seeing if I’ll make another crude remark. Bait me and then it's the old switch -- sword through the chest. Everyone targets the chest hair.”  
  
She rolls her eyes. “I’m a Seeker of Truth, Varric. Lies are not part of my specialty.”

“Hmm... You just seem... I don’t know--”

She interrupts. “What?” Cabot sets an ale down before both of them without a word. Perhaps wise considering the giant hole Varric digs at his own feet with each exaggerated pause.

Varric gestures with an open hand to the drinks. “You buy me a drink, you tease -- it’s almost as if you’re _flirting_ with me, Seeker.”

Cassandra can’t recall ever being accused of flirting before. Is that what she was doing? If this is flirting, what about all the other times they’ve spent together, making wagers over skirmishes, playing Wicked Grace late into the evenings until even Sera is passed out on a table. To her, this moment is not so different from the rest. They are all moments where she has been content, perfectly happy even, bantering with Varric.  

“Is that not what we’ve been doing this whole time?” She takes a swallow of ale, giving herself an out. 

He seems lost for words. Varric leans back with an elbow on the bartop, assessing her. If Varric continues to stall, Cassandra is unsure she can hold in an annoyed groan. The idea that she has misjudged the tension between them to this point is not a pleasant one. She will pretend the conversation was a way to get back at him for the spontaneous poem.

“Seeker, are you--” He shakes his head and tries again. “Cassandra,” he says, testing out her name. It pleasant, coming from his mouth. “Is this -- am I -- something you’d even want?”

“Yes?”

“That’s a question.”

She frowns at him. “Varric, I have not put much thought into it until now. I believe the answer to be yes... for now.”

“Well, shit. What in the void was Nightingale pissed at me for then?”

Cassandra pauses. Leliana always knows everything before she does; it is her duty. There is no doubt that Leliana pieced something together before either she or Varric could. Smiling coyly, she steps closer to Varric. “I can’t imagine. If you hope to have a similar conversation with Leliana, do not expect the same outcome.”

“And what’s that?”

Varric angles toward her. On impulse, Cassandra takes the opportunity to kiss him, hard and fast. Adrenaline pulses through her from such a bold action and she is certain her cheeks are tinged with embarrassment. After pulling back, she expects Varric to look surprised, but he is hardly an innocent. Instead the dwarf sits up straighter and grabs her closer, hands at her waist. It is a very pleasant sensation, his warm hands holding her still. Cassandra decides it’s been far too long since anyone touched her in such a way.

“Now isn’t this a pleasant picture.” Dorian smirks beside them. “I am never wrong about these things you know.” She groans in annoyance as Varric shakes his head. “And as loathe as I am to interrupt this truly momentous occasion for all of us, there’s a dreadfully old magister waiting to die at last.”

Cassandra backs up, swatting Varric’s hands away. “Truly?” She looks at Varric sympathetically -- their moment thwarted by duty.

“I’ve been waiting for this for such a long time,” Dorian says. “I wouldn’t dare interrupt a good tryst if it was not life or death.”

* * *

 

“Varric! Move!”

The Seeker shouts as the dragon begins to beat its wings. The hot air around him swirls, and he’s pulled in close to the beast’s gigantic head. It’s just air, but it hurts like thousands of tiny knives pricking his skin.

“Seeker, you can use those famous _dragon hunting skills_ any time now.” He’s not sure if she can hear him outside the roar of the dragon-made wind.

Somehow Chuckles manages to avoid the pull of the dragon’s wings, and sends a stone fist into the creature’s face. It falters for a moment, and the wind dies down. Varric leaps out of the way, shooting bolt after bolt into its flank. The Inquisitor and the Seeker chop at its legs like they’re felling a tree not a gigantic flying monster.  As soon as he thinks it though, the leg gives way and the dragon drops. Trevelyan charges and rolls underneath its head, slicing the lyrium-addled thing right up the neck. The dragon cries and rises up for a moment before collapsing hard, shaking the ground beneath their feet.

The Seeker strides over and stabs the dragon in the back of the head for good measure. If Tiny was here he’d be giving the Seeker wicked looks all night after that display. Varric can’t say he’d blame him.

The four gather around the dead dragon and look up to where Corypheus waits. The Seeker wipes sweat from her brow, then grunts in disgust. “Why does he not come down here and face us?”

“Because he’s an asshole.”

Trevelyan and the Seeker laugh, like they’ve gone a bit mad, and Chuckles snorts soundlessly. Varric’s pretty sure he’ll be exhausted by the time they climb all the damn steps. Again.

The Inquisitor takes a deep breath, then looks to each of them. “Seems like we have only one thing left to do here. Everyone ready?”

Everyone nods and their leader sets off, head held high. She might be tired, damn well exhausted after all she’s been though, but it doesn’t slow her a bit. Solas trails close behind her, grim and a bit more closed off than usual. The Seeker turns to Varric, and grabs his wrist before he can move on.

“Wait,” she urges. “We need a wager.”

He’s a little surprised, but smiles at her request anyway. “I don’t know -- I don’t think it’s wise to bet against yourself at the end. That’s even a little grim for me.”

Cassandra scoffs a little. “No,” she says. “We will beat him.”  

“Then what do you have in mind?” Varric starts walking after the Inquisitor, Cassandra at his side.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “You are the creative one!”

“Hmm... I’ll think on it.”

Varric looks up to where Corypheus waits. He’s not exactly looking forward to this fight, but damn if he’s not thinking about what’ll come after. The Seeker jogs ahead a little to catch up with the others. She turns back at him and smiles, urging him to hurry up, and his heart skips a beat at the sight of her. Andraste’s ass, in a thousand years he’d never think of a scene as perfect as this.

* * *

 

Skyhold is full of celebration. Inquisition soldiers, scouts and spies drink to Trevelyan, their raucous chants and cheers carrying into the night, echoing in the valley below. Despite the joy in it, Cassandra reaches her limit of revelry soon after the Inquisitor retires. She bids goodnight to Josephine and Leliana and searches for Varric among the crowds. She cannot spot him, and decides it is a sign to get some rest.

The crowd outside of the main hall is no thinner. Groups of comrades laugh and sing, teetering in the bushes and lingering on the steps. The parties are diverse, made up of mages and templars, and dwarves, elves and humans alike. It is a miraculous time to be alive, to witness this new day for Thedas. For surely the effect of the Inquisition will ripple outwards, like a rock thrown into a pond. Cassandra has hope for the future, not just her own, but for the Seekers of Truth as well. It is hard to feel anything but promise walking amongst the Inquisition tonight.

Soon after entering her room above the forge, she realizes there’s no use in it. Sleep will not come for anyone in Skyhold until the casks run dry. 

“So, Seeker,” calls a voice. Varric comes up the stairs with a mischievous grin. He is flushed, but still steady on his feet. “You’re not trying to put off what you owe me?” 

She sinks to sit on the edge of the bed. “I tried to find you,” she protests. “Despite what you think, I don’t keep tabs on you, Varric.” 

He considers her there, on the bed, and his gaze smolders like the forge below. Her stomach twists at the way he watches her, as if no one else exists in the world. Cassandra takes a deep breath, and does her best to stall his approach.

“How did you win? How could you possibly predict the Inquisitor would use her mark to defeat him?” 

Varric laughs. “Seeker -- it’s how I would write it. Full circle -- it begins and ends with that damn mark on her hand.” He creeps closer and Cassandra wills herself to appear calm. As if men traipsing in her chambers was a regular occurrence. 

“And if you were writing this scene? How would it end?” He reaches her side and joins her on the bed. He takes her hand and strokes the back of it with his thumb. Surely he can feel the erratic beat of her pulse.

“With you fulfilling that bet you made earlier.” 

“Varric-- I--” He smiles and leans back against the bed as if it was his own. She swallows thickly at the sight of him reclined there and imagines Varric wearing nothing but that smile. 

“Yes, Seeker?” 

“I’ve never done this before.” 

He jolts up quickly, as if an intruder broke inside and held her at knife point. He searches for words before settling on, ”that’s a real shame." Cassandra scoffs and pushes him back down. 

“No, you idiot. I’ve done that.” Her hands linger on his firm chest. “I have not stripped for a man before.” 

“Ah, you scared me a little there.” 

“Because taking my maidenhood would have been such a burden on you.” 

“No because that’s a lot of pressure and I’ve drank too much.” 

He laughs and rests his head back on folded arms. She continues to touch his chest, frozen in place and drunk herself on the feel of him. She slips her hand inside his tunic, over his heart, and checks to see if it beats as wildly as hers. 

“I’m not going to make you, Seeker. I’d be happier than a Fereldener with his dog if you just laid here with me until the noise dies down.” 

His heart beats just as fiercely as her own. That makes up her mind. 

“No -- I agreed to the bet, as foolish as it may be. I will pay up.” She retreats, crawling backwards off the bed. Varric’s eyes widen as she fidgets with her collar.

Cassandra isn’t sure how to be seductive. She could just undress, and be done with it, but that would not be in the spirit of their wager. She’d asked for a date, and while it is far less terrifying than a striptease, in this moment she’s glad of the outcome. Unsure fingers begin to unclasp the front of her tabard. 

“Just relax,” he says. Varric scoots up against the headboard, limbs loose and his hair pulled free of its confine. “If it’s not fun, you’re not doing it right.” 

“Easy for you to say, dwarf.” Her tabard sails across the room to cover his head. Varric chuckles, dropping it to the floor.

Because of the chill, she wears two more layers over her breast band. She pulls the top layer off swiftly, the tunic dropping to the floor. With one more piece off, she steps closer to the bed. The undershirt is next, and Cassandra teases the edge of it up over stomach. There are scars there, across her ribs on the left side, but she can tell by Varric’s reaction that it doesn’t matter. His hand rests dangerously near the edge of his breeches, as if he’s just barely able to keep himself in check. Cassandra grins, stalking towards him slowly. She reaches the end of the bed frame and removes the undershirt to reveal her bound chest. Varric’s eyes go wide and he bites his lip. She takes this as an encouraging sign and peels the breast band off. His mouth falls slack at the sight of her breasts.

“You’re so beautiful, Cass.” His breathing hitches as she crawls on the bed. Varric is the one fidgeting now, shifting as she approaches. 

“I like that,” she says. “It sounds much more flattering than Seeker.” Cassandra stops near his feet, and realizes he is wearing boots in her bed. “You’ll get the covers filthy,” she admonishes.

He grins sheepishly, tugging off the boots and flinging them on the floorboards. “Is that your subtle way of getting me to undress?”

She shakes her head and sits on her knees. Her heart is a wild thing in her chest, and she breathes through her nose in an effort to steady herself. She begins to untie her breeches. Varric freezes, as if she’ll bolt if he makes a move. Inch by inch she pulls the fabric down, first over hips then thighs. She bends over to remove each leg, all the while watching Varric’s pupils expand. He’s touching himself now, over the fabric, lightly stroking his erection. Cassandra never wears underwear, and now he has the full view of her.

“You’re killing me,” he says. Voice thick with desire. Cassandra doesn’t know what to do with her hands now, and lets them rest lamely at her sides.

“Does this satisfy our agreement?” Varric nods, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Do you want to touch me?”

“Andraste’s tits, do I want to touch you. Come here.”

He leans forward and grabs her hand, pulling her on top. His hands roam over her naked body, pausing momentarily to cup a breast or feel her ass. He smooths down her flank and she shivers under his touch. Varric kisses her neck, then her cheek, and finally her lips. He groans as she opens for him, sliding her tongue into his mouth. She nips his lower lip, then kisses towards his ear. “Varric,” she sighs. “I must tell you. I’ve only been with one man, and that was... a long time ago.”

She pulls up and Varric holds her face in his hands. “Now, that is a shame, Cass. I’m pretty sure you were designed to be worshipped.” Cassandra blushes at the idea and Varric tumbles her over, moving her easily as if she was a stack of papers. “I’m in need of prayer,” he jokes, settling between her thighs. By now her cunt aches, ready for him, but she’s unsure if this is exactly what she’s ready for.

“I don’t know if--”

He kisses down her leg and all her protests fly out the window to join the ruckus there. Varric pushes her legs wide, marking a trail with his tongue on smooth flesh. She shivers again, and he looks up once, eyes locking on her own, before bowing his head to make love to her with his mouth. 

Cassandra bucks as he circles her clit with his expert tongue and his hands grip her. She moans as he sucks and suckles and teases, over and over. Sweat collects behind her knees and a great pressure forms in her core. Varric seems to be aware of her every changing sensation, and pushes a finger inside her entrance. She groans, moving into his face and hand. She reaches down, threading fingers through his hair. It drives her further, feeling in control.

Soon the building pressure reaches its peak and sends her soaring above Skyhold. Varric scoots up, panting against her stomach. Cassandra giggles at his messed hair, and calms it down with her palms. 

“That was perfect, Varric.” She lets her head rest against the bed, sighing in satisfaction.

“I could get used to hearing that,” he laughs. Varric sits up and yanks off his clothing faster than she can protest. Now that she’s been on the other end, a striptease sounds appealing.

Cassandra is languid, her limbs spread and cheeks flushed with exertion. She can’t remember feeling this way before. Whether because it has been too long or because Varric is the difference, she’s far too blissed to piece it out. The dwarf looms over her relaxed body, cock bobbing against his stomach. He traces her sides and leans forward to capture a nipple between his lips. Cassandra squirms, feeling the warm rippling sensation all the way down to her toes. 

“Uhhhh,” she groans. Varric cups her other breast then knees between her legs. Her hands find themselves in his hair again; she can’t seem to get enough of it. 

He moves to her neck, kissing and nibbling on the sensitive skin. “You ready for this?” He asks, hot against her ear. Cassandra nods, moving her hands to grip his thick upper arms. He flexes without thinking, and while she’d normally roll her eyes, the sheer strength of him is impressive.

Varric kisses her deeply as he moves inside her. Cassandra gasps against his mouth, rocking her hips forward. He’s careful not to crush her and experienced enough to make her whimper.

“The sounds you make drive me crazy,” he groans.

Varric hitches up her legs, folding her almost in half. He’s able to thrust deeper, and with each stroke he comes a bit more undone. All of a sudden it hits her. Cassandra can hardly believe that it is happening, wriggling under his grasp. This is a whole other part of Varric she'd been missing. It feels so right, how could it have taken them so long to find it?

He bends forward, a sudden hand gripping the sheet near her head, and swears under his breath. She smiles, holds his shoulders and whispers filthy things in his ear about how good it feels to have his cock inside her. The dirty nothings do it, his pace becoming erratic, his breathing heavy. He leans back, hands circling one of her legs, and finishes with a final deep thrust.

“Fuck.” He breathes through his teeth, running a hand through his hair.  Cassandra lowers her limbs, stretching and arching her back. Varric dives down, kissing her collarbone. She wraps her arms around him, holding him to her breast. 

“Stay with me,” she says. He muffles a yes in reply and rolls them to their sides. He presses a kiss to forehead, tucks her close to his chest and soothes her back with his roughened fingertips.

She has never been so eager to sleep in. All Cassandra wants is a full day of this, just the two of them in her bed, before duty drives them separate directions.

“You know, Seeker. I’ve been known to wager a time or two, but this? I’d never have guessed we’d end up like this.”

She smiles against his broad chest and curls her fingers in the hair there. “I would have taken that bet.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *actual game banter ;)  
> **This is a lovely poem by Lord Byron named She Walks in Beauty. I'm no poet, and I figure Varric would appreciate a rakish figure like Byron. ;)


	2. Epilogue

A parcel and a note arrives and Cassandra opens the note first, her small blade slicing through the wax seal. It is a message from Divine Victoria, surely delivered by a raven. Old habits are hard to ditch. 

> _Cassandra,_
> 
> _The Inquisitor needs you in Halamshiral. It’s finally coming to bear._
> 
> _Varric will be here soon._

There is nothing else to the note. Her chest fills with love, close to bursting with the thought of seeing Varric soon. Placing the paper aside, she grabs the other package. It is a plain brown box, the only adornment a simple string wound around to keep it shut. She unties the package slowly, savoring the surprise.

What she finds is curious at first, until she reads the note. The dwarf has done it -- she will kill him if she can ever stop laughing. 

“What is it?” Seeker Toubert asks, joining her by the fire. He looks into the box, and picks up the book. A spitting resemblance of Cassandra graces the front. “The Tracker of Thieves,” he reads from the cover. “Is that you?”  
  
She wipes away a tear, still chuckling. “How much would you like to bet her name is Cassandra?”


End file.
